


The Shine of Your Reflection

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Series: Featheruary Prompts 2020 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22622002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: After the Nogitsune, Stiles' wings turned black. A black so deep that it seemed to suck in the light around it, never catching the sun, never reflecting the overheads.Except for when Peter is watching.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Featheruary Prompts 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627549
Comments: 17
Kudos: 808





	The Shine of Your Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by the ever lovely @shey-elizabeth on tumblr, aka Shey here on AO3.
> 
> "After the Nogitsune spits him out, Stiles' wings are wrong. He does his best to hide it, and them, but someone is going to notice sooner or later. Cue Peter being both more intrusive and more empathetic than expected (only one of those is actually a surprise)."
> 
> Hey! If you're reading this on a paid subscription app, did you know that you can read it for free on archiveofourown.org? You can search for my username or the story title. I write these for free, to be read for free, and any app developers who profit off the back of that should know that deepthroating the boot of capitalism comes with an increased risk of guillotine related illness. They do not have my permission to host this story.

When the nogitsune split from Stiles, it took the original body and shoved Stiles into a new one.

The new one was identical to the old one, down to the last mole, except for one thing: instead of dusty brown feathers, he had black. So black that they seemed to suck in light, making it hard to distinguish individual feathers. The flat effect was so uncanny that some of the sillier students at the high school started a rumor that Stiles had his feather wings surgically replaced with bat wings. 

That was ridiculous, of course, and most of the student body and townsfolk just assumed he was using powders or dyes. It was his teenage right to have a goth phase, so no one looked twice after they’d taken in the new look.

The pack looked even less, thinking that they already knew the secret of Stiles’ changed wings. 

But Peter watched Stiles. He’d always watched Stiles, from the beginning, before he could even fully grasp why he was doing it.

Because he watched, he was the only one that noticed how Stiles’ wings _did_ catch the light- but only sometimes. Only in spots, but never the same spot twice. 

It happened at random times as well; after a day long research binge on the town’s latest irritant. During an argumentative pack meeting. Peter even saw it by happenstance at the grocery store once.

It tugged at Peter’s curiosity. 

It couldn’t be a cosmetic product, or the effect would be more uniform. It might be magical in origin, but Stiles’s magic put off a specific scent since the nogitsune- not an unpleasant one, but consistently noticeable just the same. 

He found the answer thanks to a manticore and his own violent streak. 

Peter had been ready for a tussle- the unsolved mystery of Stiles’ wings left a simmering frustration on the back of his tongue, and he was fully prepared for a cathartic evening with his claws. 

Scott, of course, had wanted to sedate the beast. Peter was even gracious enough to allow him to try all four vials of ketamine. After all, the ketamine had come from Deaton, and he did so love wasting the veterinarian’s time. 

Eventually, however, he grew impatient and flicked Scott out of the way to attack. He deftly dodged the wings of the manticore, spinning beneath the beasts claws before burying his own in its neck, ripping out its throat and sending arterial spray across the clearing. 

A part of him reveled in the violence of the mess- the evidence of his abilities, the satisfaction of his base instincts. 

The rest of him, however, had an aesthetic to maintain. 

He took his handkerchief out and began to carefully wipe down his wings, ignoring the disgusted complaints of the rest of the pack. Well, the complaints of everyone but Stiles, who was too busy harvesting the spines from the manticore’s tail. Peter looked at him appraisingly, noticing that he hadn’t missed the spray of blood, but was simply more invested in taking advantage of the situation. He’d wiped his face clean, but still had blood spattered across his neck and shoulders, and presumably across his wings, although it was impossible to tell with how dark the feathers were. 

Except. 

Except, they caught the light. In exactly the way that baffled Peter so, in random spots. Spots briefly reflecting the moon. 

Spots that were covered in blood. 

Stiles finished gathering the spines, and did his part in calling up the earth to bury the animal. Everyone parted ways immediately afterward, eager to find the closest bath. 

Peter, however, followed Stiles home. 

He knew he was being allowed to; there was no way Stiles was unaware that he was being followed, and if he truly didn’t want Peter there then he had enough wards to keep him out. 

Instead, Peter found himself easily allowed into Stiles’ room as he was putting away his new bounty. 

“What do you want, Creeperwolf?” Stiles asked, looking up at Peter curiously. Peter shrugged casually. 

“I made a bit of a mess back there-”

Stiles snorts, repeating “ _a bit”_ sarcastically under his breath.

“-so I thought it polite to help you groom your feathers.” 

It was fascinating, to see the slight shifts in Stiles’ expression. The ones that mean nothing on his face was real. The ones that mean everyone else has been shut out. 

“No thanks, Uncle Bad Touch-” Stiles said caustically, but Peter interrupted him. 

“They’re quite a mess,” he said lightly, eyeing the wings critically. It’s not really true, the feathers he can see are mostly straight even after their busy night. But it does get the mask on Stiles’ face to drop slightly. 

“My wings are _fine_. Did you honestly come here to act like a bitchier, cut-rate version of Jonathan Van Ness?”

“I’m not a bitchier cut-rate version of Jonathan Van Ness, Jonathan Van Ness is a less bitchy cut-rate version of me, and how would you even know if they’re a mess? You can’t see.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but Peter was too fast. Too quick, and too determined. 

He slid behind Stiles, ignoring the immediate buffeting of his wings, and peered closely at the coverts. More blood was obvious now that he was looking closely, but it was buried beneath the thick layers of matte black feathers, close to the skin. He carefully moved the top ones aside, stopping when Stiles let out a pained hiss and froze. 

There was blood everywhere. 

Broken pin feathers scattered his skin, the collection of calami much denser than normal. Bent rachis and torn vanes could be seen all over the place, once again hidden beneath the thick layer of top feathers. 

A memory of burnt wings, and the pain that came from deformed feathers constantly breaking made him shudder.

“Christ,” he breathed out. 

Stiles hunched a little, clearly bracing for more pain, babbling. 

“I can’t- they just grow that way now. They’re so thick, there isn’t enough space for the new feathers to come in. They’re constantly breaking. Even if I had time to groom for hours every day-” 

“This happened after the nogitsune?” Peter interrupted. 

Stiles nodded, and then carefully pulled away, turning to look at Peter, who finally dropped his hands. 

“Something about the- the way the nogitsune made this body… I heal faster now. I don’t need as much sleep.” He scoffed out a tiny laugh and looked away before turning his dry gaze back to Peter. “My hair is thicker too.” He sighed. “It’s not like it’s a real problem-”

“The blood on your feathers is evidence to the contrary,” Peter interrupted again, voice tight.

Stiles went silent.

“Let me help you with your wings,” Peter said. Insisted, really, even if Stiles’ didn’t know that yet. 

“Peter-” Stiles sighed. “It’s not just that I don’t have time. It- it really fucking hurts, okay?” He grit his teeth. “The amount of time it would take to straighten everything out daily… I’d rather just bear the pain of some feathers breaking than spending hours trying not to scream.” He jut out his jaw, as if daring Peter to mock him for wanting to avoid the hurt. 

As if there was anyone who understood the bearing and avoidance of pain more than Peter.

Instead, Peter lightly said, “If only you had someone offering to groom you who is also capable of taking away your pain.” 

Stiles’ mouth fell open. He clearly hadn’t considered that.

“Lay down,” Peter demanded, only a little surprised when Stiles actually did so. He placed one hand on the small of Stiles’ back between his wings, rubbing his thumb back and forth as he began to drain the pain of the broken feathers. 

It was difficult to stay calm in the face of evidence that Stiles had been bearing this much pain since the nogitsune without anyone in the pack noticing. 

With his other hand, he began to clean and straighten feathers. 

Stiles fell asleep almost immediately, as surprising as not beneath Peter’s hands, given the situation and their night. Peter continued to work for hours. He groomed as best he could under the onslaught of sharp quills and thick down, considering the various medical and magical options available that might help the problem. 

By the time he finished, his own hands were beginning to ache. Stiles stirred just as he opened the window to leave. 

“Peter?” he asked, voice rough, not quite fully awake. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Peter assured him. “I’ll groom you again and we can talk about how to fix the problem.” 

Stiles stared at him for a moment, sleep rumpled and more relaxed than Peter had seen in months. Then he collapsed back down to his pillow. 

“You’re weird,” he muttered, and then-

“Thank you, Creeperwolf.” 

Peter smirked, and shut the window behind him.


End file.
